


lead me home

by mjonesing (klassmartin)



Series: When I’m with you [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon nudged to the left and shoved to the right, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Michelle Jones is a journalist, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Ned Leeds is a Menace, Peter the Hermit, The Golden Trio, is probably a wise tag, like... a lot, sensory play, take it back now y'all, though not to brag but it's all pretty good, you do not have to read the rest of this series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28621308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/mjonesing
Summary: "You'll do it?""I'll talk to him. That's all I'm promising."Because when you boil it right down, Michelle got into this gig for one reason.It's been the core principle of her existence, and is the thing she values above all else.Michelle Jones believes in the truth.And Peter Parker needs to tell his.-----Or: Ned reaches out to old friend and promising journalist Michelle Jones in a bid to save Peter from a life of seclusion after the reveal of his identity to the world.No one could have predicted the way sparks begin to fly, or how no secret can truly stay buried for long.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker
Series: When I’m with you [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782451
Comments: 52
Kudos: 83





	1. Week One

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to post this until the end of the month but then my whole brain went, what the hell? So here I am. Posting. For no real reason other than I currently hate writing but I adore this story so much I'm hoping it'll kickstart my brain into doing a factory reset.
> 
> Been writing this story since maybe July? So a while. Looking forward to releasing it into the world.
> 
> There is no requirements to read the other stories in this series; they are all standalone fics that are linked purely by the song they are based on.
> 
> Thanks as always to @michellesbohh and @i-lovethatforme for being the cheerleaders everyone should have in life.

**MONDAY**

"Fuck, Michelle, almost there!"

She sucks a little harder, the glimpse of the clock a few moments ago suddenly making her ready for this to be over. Her source follow-up requires her to be across town by 8am and she hadn't planned to still be on her knees this close to midnight, but Josh had given her two quick orgasms and she's all about an equitable exchange when selecting her sexual partners. 

He seems nice enough, hadn't blinked when she'd turned down his offer of a drink but accepted his company, and when she'd decided halfway to orgasm number two that she didn't want him to fuck her in all the ways he'd slurred prettily into her ear, he'd respected her decision like a gentleman. 

With a quick twist and a squeeze, Josh finishes into the tissue she'd grabbed while they manoeuvred in the private toilet cubicle.

She's already haphazardly cleaned herself up and is pulling the scrap of lace that is apparently deemed underwear back up her legs, so with a flutter of her fingers, she leaves Josh to sort himself out and struts back into the suffocating atmosphere of DC's nightlife.

She slips easily through the preppy crowd to the exit, exchanging pleasantries with the bouncer who shakes her hand and says, "Good to see you, Michelle. Thanks again for that book loan!"

"Take care, Marcus! Next time I wanna see a hundred pictures of your new baby, okay? I'm gonna count them!"

She's only met Marcus twice, but it's always good to make friends with the bouncers.

Plus his kid is gonna be so fucking cute.

* * *

**TUESDAY**

She doesn't waste a second of the three hour train ride, typing up the outline of her article in record time. She's got four credible sources and the story is gonna cause a massive political stir, but so far she's managed to fly under the Senator's radar. Which is almost a pity. The week doesn't quite feel right without some kind of threat of bodily harm.

She rolls her shoulders back as the train begins to pull into New York, something settling within her as she takes one last breath of stale train air. If there's one thing she can count on her home state to do, it's threaten her with bodily harm.

Twilight has already set over the city when she emerges from the subway. A podcast chats mindlessly into one ear as she walks the well trodden path to the crapbox apartment she shares with her cousin, Tia, and the neighbour's cat who seems to have adopted them. She doesn't particularly enjoy her living arrangements, but Tia is clean and works almost as many hours as Michelle does, so they don't step on each other's toes. 

It also means they can afford a semi-decent space that allows for a bit of disposable income. It's a relationship built mostly on convenience with a dash of rebellion, since their mothers can't stand each other after The Incident of '04.

The apartment is as empty as she expected, so Michelle allows herself a moment to collapse onto the lumpy monstrosity they call a couch, scratching behind Anastasia's ears when she curls around Michelle's ankles. 

"You had dinner yet?" Michelle asks. Anastasia meows in that way that means she's hungry, and how dare Michelle not already be serving her a gourmet meal?

"If you're going to be that grumpy, you can just go to your actual owner," she replies, because she talks casually to cats now. The tabby just meows at her again and follows her to the kitchen.

Michelle spends the next hour showering and finding a pair of dress pants that aren't wrinkled to shit, and then she's back on the subway. 

She's running a little late for her dinner plans, but she blames it 100% on the state of public transport in this city. It is definitely not because she'd had to raid Tia's wardrobe for a shirt that would make her look less struggling professional journalist, a little more successful-journalist-on-a-sophisticated-night-out-with-an-old-friend.

It's a fine line to walk. She misses the combat boots and oversized jackets of her youth.

Despite her tiny stature, it's hard to miss the perfectly quaffed blonde bombshell that is Betty Brant. She's perched effortlessly on a stool at the bar, a Cosmo resting between her neatly manicured fingers, a deep pink dress draped effortlessly across her lap, skimming her knees. 

Michelle smiles. While a lot has changed since high school, Betty has only evolved into a more Betty version of herself.

"Brant," she greets, after sliding through the crowd of Wall Street douchebags to reach the bar. Betty's eyes glimmer under the strategic lighting to highlight the rainbow of glass bottles on offer, beaten only by the diamond that takes pride of place on her friend's left hand. 

"Jones." Betty slides a vodka tonic across the polished wood, a napkin resting on top of the glass. Michelle accepts the drink with a pleased sigh. 

"Our table should be ready soon,” Betty says as she side-eyes a trio of pompous boys in suits that leer their way, “and I've made sure we'll be tucked in the back so we don't have to deal with any of those idiots."

"This is why you're the only person I've bothered to keep in contact with. You just get me," Michelle says wistfully, taking a long sip of the cool drink.

"Right. See, that's a lovely sentiment, but now I feel bad for luring you here under false pretences."

Michelle stares at Betty over the rim of her glass, who shifts minutely in her seat as a tension builds between them.

"What did you do?"

Betty's smile is nervous, and is so out of character that Michelle almost feels bad for her. Almost. If she hadn't just betrayed her, apparently.

"Hey, MJ."

She stiffens in her seat.

There are a select group of people that ever had permission for that nickname, and she knows that only two of them are currently New York residents.

One is sitting across from her.

And the other is -

"Ned. _Hi_."

Michelle redacts her previous statement. If anyone hasn't changed since high school, it's Ned Leeds. Everything, from his eclectic fashion to the boyish wonder that lights his face, is exactly the same. He could tell her right now that he'd time travelled here from 2023 and she'd believe it without question.

"Miss Brant, your table is ready," a waiter informs them. Betty flashes them a tight-lipped smile as Ned and Michelle continue to stare.

She’s so stunned by the way her seemingly innocent evening plans have gone that she can't even remember walking to the table, only that they're here now, tucked into the back with Betty on her left and Ned on her right and a suddenly empty glass in her hand.

The waiter leaves to fetch another round of drinks and it's just the three of them, no one quite sure how to start.

"In case it wasn't obvious, I'm not paying for any of this," Michelle announces, looking mainly at Little Miss Trust Fund.

Betty nods. "Deal."

"As for _you_ ," she says pointedly at the boy who's already halfway to tearing his napkin to shreds, "How did you get her to break?"

"I, uh, I just asked."

Michelle looks back to the blonde with a frown. "If you're going to betray someone, Brant, at least get something out of it."

Betty rolls her eyes, realising her friend isn't mad enough to call her by her first name, and relaxes back into her seat as far as her perfect posture will allow.

Their waiter returns with drinks and takes their food orders, which they select randomly from the menu as the guy is clearly stressed. Michelle stirs a paper straw around her glass and studies Ned as he sips at the gin Betty had recommended. He winces when the alcohol burns at the back of his throat.

"So what are you up to, now?" Michelle asks, as if engaging him in small talk will distract him enough that it'll be all they engage in, until dinner is over and she can excuse herself from this whole ordeal.

"I'm an aerospace engineer, working mostly on space crafts." Ned takes another sip, a little more confident with a topic that's familiar to him. "I got my Masters and got accepted into the Stark Industries program."

She arches an eyebrow, because of course he did.

"I've been reverse engineering a lot of alien tech, which has been pretty cool."

"Speaking of Stark Industries, don't you have something you want to ask?" Betty looks at him pointedly and Michelle wants to claw her eyes out, then her own.

She couldn't even get five minutes…

"I already know what he wants to ask me, and he already knows my answer." Michelle picks at the skin around her thumbnail. "He's been bothering me about it since I got the job at the Herald."

"Yes, but it's different now," Betty says slowly. Ned yelps, likely because Betty just kicked him. "Tell her."

Ned's gaze darts between the two women until he settles on Michelle, leaning across the table to address her. "He said yes."

Michelle scoffs. "Just because he suddenly wants to do it doesn't mean I'm now changing my mind."

"Please, MJ. Peter needs your help."

* * *

**WEDNESDAY**

When she opens the door, the hallway lights cut into the darkness of the room, illuminating her path just enough to make it to the bottom of the stairway. She clears her throat, unimpressed.

"E.D.I.T.H, lights please."

Peter jolts up from his napping position against a workspace, a stray bolt sticking to the skin of his cheek.

"Peter Parker, what did I tell you about sleeping in here?"

He shrinks under the glare of his Aunt. "That labs are not for sleeping."

"And what was the one thing I told you to do yesterday?" Her hands are on her hips and even from a distance he finds her scary.

"To go home at a sensible hour." May stalks closer. The bolt falls with a clatter into the mess of parts spread in front of him. "And sleep in my bed."

Her expression softens as she takes in the tired eyes of her nephew. "Honey, you can't just lock yourself in this space and wait for the next mission. It's not healthy. You're twenty five, you're supposed to be living life recklessly, making mistakes, falling in and out of love. Pepper didn't give you this space to waste away in."

Peter twists around in his chair, staring at the little collection of photos he had stuck to the wall the day Pepper had opened the door and grandly informed him that everything the light touched was his.

He's paraphrasing, but still.

There are five people in the photographs. Himself, May, Ned, Pepper, Happy and Morgan.

Over the last couple of years, Morgan has expanded the wall into quite an impressive feat of scribbled crayon and more careful pen strokes, her first blueprint sitting pride of place at the top, but at its heart lie the photos that make up the people Peter considers family.

"Peter Parker doesn't get to be reckless or make mistakes."

May steps around the bench and wraps her arms around his shoulders, resting her chin on the top of his head. He leans back into her touch, lets the scent of home wash over him and lighten the weight he carries everywhere with him, even if just for a moment.

"I know the world has been particularly cruel to you, sweetie, but that doesn't mean there isn't anything good to experience. And I know you know that, because you're still out, fighting for what's good and right. You just have to be willing to open yourself up to it."

He wants to believe her.

He wants to believe that there's more than just more pain out there.

But he looks at the ghosts that are missing from his wall.

He remembers how the world turned on a seventeen year old boy who just wanted to help.

And he can't bring himself to unlock that door again.

"I love you, May," he says instead, and she drops a kiss into his hair.

"I love you too, sweetie." He hears her sniff. "Now go shower. you stink."

* * *

**THURSDAY**

While he may spend the vast majority of his time in his little lab bunker, Peter is not a hermit.

For instance, he visits Ned at work sometimes.

(Yes, so technically Ned works in the same facility as his bunker, but it's a big enough campus that Peter has to walk for at least two minutes between buildings in the outdoors.)

He lives in an apartment with May about a fifteen minute drive away in good traffic.

(Which, okay, so Happy usually drives him, but he doesn't mind because he always brings Morgan and they enjoy competing to see who is the cleverest of them all. It's her, for the record, but she's technically a teenager now and the last thing he needs is to inflate her already Tony-sized ego.)

And every so often, under the cover of night, Peter goes for walks down the streets of the place he once called home.

Look, you don't spend eight years having to hide your face from the public without getting really good at it.

Spiderman won his legal battles against the story Mysterio had tried to spin several years ago, but there was no undoing the outing of his identity. While public opinion was still a little divided, there was a general consensus amongst most that he was innocent, and that was great, for a while.

They had thought Peter would be able to re-enter society. Pepper had a PR team dedicated to it. It would take time, but they had hope.

Then someone snatched May right off the street.

So now he keeps to himself, Spiderman a rumour, a shadow that dances through the city but is never seen, not until the big things call for it. He'll save the world with a band of misfit superhumans and aliens, or he'll save a person in the whisper of the wind, but nothing more.

He's discovered over the years that the best way to blend in is to dress nondescript, wear a chunky set of glasses to throw people off, and to keep his hair a little too long.

No cap or sunglasses or whatever else just makes you look suspicious.

It has to be simple to be effective.

So Peter walks down a busy Queens street with his head tilted down but his senses alert, looking but not watching as people go about their life like it's easy.

But if he was any one of the thousands of people bustling around him, he probably wouldn't have seen it. 

As it stands, he is himself. And that is why, after fifteen years of friendship, Peter can identify his best friend in a crowd as easy as breathing.

He's huddled in a closed shop doorway with a woman, something she's saying making the corners of his mouth tug down. Peter's ears search for the conversation without much thought, in time to hear Ned hiss, "I know what you did, and that's why I know you're one to do this."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't do anything!" The woman's voice is familiar, and she crouches down until their heights are level. "It's sweet that you're trying to help, but there are hundreds of other journalists out there who would kill for it. Right now, this is above my paygrade."

The woman glances out at the street and for the first time, he can see her face.

And it's like time stops.

The last time Peter had Michelle Jones in person, it was the day before their summer trip to Europe, back when his biggest concern was how she'd react to his plan to give her a necklace at the top of the Eiffel Tower. She'd put a major kink into the plan by telling him that her Mom had been in an accident, so she was skipping the break to take care of her while her leg healed. He'd been a little heartbroken but she'd given him this shy little smile when he told her he was bummed but he understood. She'd waved and left to catch her train home, and Peter had darted across the school to find his best friend to work out how to rework the plan.

And then Europe happened, and the plan was forgotten.

It's been eight years, and she looks so different to that day long ago. Her hair is longer and a little sleeker, and she's definitely wearing mascara. She's dressed in a tailored blazer and a pencil skirt that accentuates the length of her legs, a woollen coat thrown over her arm. Her shoulders sit back proudly, a confidence to her that was quiet in their youth but is more sure of itself now.

She looks good, which is almost definitely his downfall, because when he tears his gaze from the cute little flats she's wearing, her eyes are locked right on him.

Of course, if anyone was going to see right through the disguise, it would be the piercing gaze of Michelle Jones.

"Fuck," she whispers.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Peter does an abrupt 180 and darts back in the direction he'd come, ignoring Ned as he calls his name, darting into the closest alley and stripping down to the jet black suit beneath it, a web pulling him onto the closest roof just as Ned stumbles by, searching for the ghost of Queens.

* * *

**FRIDAY**

So admittedly, yesterday hadn't gone quite the way she had expected it to.

After politely turning down Ned's request twice, the dinner on Tuesday had been a little awkward but mostly okay. They had all made their excuses early and she'd thought that perhaps the issue would be left alone, until she'd found him waiting for her on her journey home from the office.

And as if his accusations weren't bad enough, she'd felt someone watching them, only to see Peter Parker for the first time in years on the other side of the street.

"Did you plan this?" She'd been hurt, confused by the sudden appearance of a boy who was known to have withdrawn from public life, right as his best friend had barged back into her life. But Ned's attention was on the skyline, and he'd simply told her,

"I didn't know he was even leaving the lab."

Despite her refusal to be a part of Ned's plan, she spends much of Friday thinking it over anyway, staring at the beginnings of the final draft of her assigned article but her mind abuzz with the potential of something else.

She tries to focus on her work but finds little inspiration, and eventually tells her boss that she has a family emergency to skip out on the rest of the afternoon. She's watching the kids clamber over the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park, hoping their delighted screams and innocent view of the world will somehow distract her from what slowly brews in her mind.

Her boss would never go for it - no one will touch the topic of Spiderman for fear of retribution, no matter which way the opinion sways, not after what an army of very expensive lawyers did to the Daily Bugle.

It would probably destroy her career, and she's spent too long battling for a seat at the table to get thrown out now.

She should walk away right now, but somehow she still dials the number he'd slipped into her bag the night before.

"You said there was a lab. Where is it?"

"You'll do it?"

"I'll talk to him. That's all I'm promising."

Because when you boil it right down, Michelle got into this gig for one reason.

It's been the core principle of her existence, and is the thing she values above all else.

Michelle Jones believes in the truth.

And Peter Parker needs to tell his.

* * *

**SATURDAY**

The downside to his lab bunker is that it's mostly underground, and the lack of windows makes it difficult to judge how much of the day has passed when he gets into the zone on a project. 

So when Pepper Potts' shadow falls over the blueprints her daughter had drawn up for him, he's winces, because he definitely missed dinner, and that means two women and a vengeful teenager are mad at him, which is pretty fucking horrific.

There is a covered, steaming bowl of mac and cheese in her hands, and her sharp blue eyes watch him slowly lower the wrench in his hands and offer her a nervous smile.

"Oops."

She tilts her head in that way only mother's can. "Oops."

"You know, this room could really use a clock," he jokes weakly, scrubbing a hand against the skin at the back of his neck.

Pepper puts his microwave dinner down on the closest bit of free workspace. "It's moments like this that I wonder if you're somehow Tony."

"Uh, thanks?"

Pepper shakes her head in amusement and begins to walk away. "That wasn't a compliment."

"Oh. Sorry about dinner!"

She's halfway up the stairs now, her heels clacking on the metal steps. "Stop doing everything Morgan tells you to do and you're forgiven." She pauses at the door, looks back at Peter where he's already spinning the wrench in his hand, stepping around the collection of parts that will inevitably turn into a device her daughter will use to torture her poor Uncle. "Also, you have a visitor."

"Send him in, I could do with Ned's help on this bit anyway," Peter mutters, crossing over to the holotable in the middle of the room to pull up the schematics.

"Hey dude," Peter calls when he hears footsteps approaching. "Could you give me a hand with this? Oh, and we really need to talk about -"

His hairs stand on end. Ned is not the one in the room.

Peter's got a web shooter aimed at the intruder within half a second, but at the end of his webbing is the hand of Michelle Jones, a forkful of pasta frozen in place.

"Hello to you, too, Peter," she says dryly. "Is this how you greet all of your guests? Or am I a special case?"

Peter is gaping. Actually gaping. What the f-

"Do you mind?" she continues, shaking her hand. "I'm starving."

"MJ?" he asks possibly the stupidest question of all time, because of course it's her.

She rolls her eyes and leans into the fork, eating her stolen food with a content sigh. Her free hand rises from behind her back and she eyes him suspiciously when his other hand twitches, like he doesn't trust her, but she puts the tequila bottle down next to his dinner and reaches back into her bag to pull out two shot glasses with an exaggerated flourish.

"I don't know about you, but right now I could do with a drink. Or five."

Peter finally lets the tension out of the web stuck to her hand, and she tugs the fork out of her locked grip to calmly begin pouring the amber liquid, pushing one closer to him when he continues to stand and stare at her like she might vanish in between a blink of his eyes.

"Let me, uh, let me get the -" Peter stumbles to a metal set of drawers three feet away, quickly rifling through the contents until he comes back with a glass vial. He hesitates when he begins to reach for her hand, but she just rolls her eyes again and extends her arm as far as it will go.

With the webbing safely removed from her skin, Michelle makes herself busy finding a seat, walking around his space like she's known it all her life, a surety in her movements that's a little more refined than the Michelle he had known at school. She returns with a chair that has at least three of his jumpers thrown over and drops right on top of them.

In that tiny window of distraction, Peter has managed to make his brain work enough to say, "Not to be rude, but why are you here?"

Michelle pinches another forkful of mac and cheese. "Ned said you needed me."

He blushes like he's still seventeen, and she finds it oddly endearing. "W-Why would he say that?"

She pauses, fork halfway to her lips. "For the article," she says slowly, suddenly unsure.

"The article? What article?" Peter settles into his own chair, flicking between the last few conversations he'd had with his best friend until - "Fuck. I'm gonna kill him."

Michelle's expression clears with understanding. "Oh. Right. He lied. _I'm_ gonna kill him."

Peter sighs, drops his head into his hands. "He had this stupid idea after I got involved in the fight in Maryland that I should 'reclaim my narrative', try to get my life back. He went on about it for months, but I kept telling him no, there was a - Well. Anyway. I thought he dropped it but apparently I just encouraged him to go rogue."

Michelle feels her shoulders sag a little with the disappointment of a lost story, but she fights to keep her face passive. "It wasn't long after that that I got the first email."

"I'm so sorry, MJ, he means well, he's just -"

"Ned?" Michelle offers him a slight smile and Peter visibly relaxes, his grin much wider. "It's fine, Peter. Means I can do this."

Michelle kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on the workspace. 

"Much better," she sighs happily, picking up her shot glass. "Plus now I don't have to count my drinks."

Peter picks up his own and they raise them in a silent toast, throwing them back. Michelle immediately fills them again, capping the bottle and stealing another bite of pasta before pushing the bowl towards him. "I think that's yours."

Peter takes a moment to take in the sight of his high school crush juxtaposed with the sterile, bland surroundings of his lab. How just her presence alone makes the colours a little brighter, everything a little more focused, like she's warming the space just by being here. It makes him smile. "You look good, MJ. Happy."

Michelle shrugs, lets her gaze wander around the open space, a hundred machines and their carcasses littering the outskirts, tools and parts that mean nothing to her but he is intimately familiar with. She lingers on a wall covered in paper, drawings and sketches and photos in perfect condition. 

"You look like shit," she says bluntly. And it's true; his hair desperately needs a cut and his skin is too pale, like he hasn't seen the sun in years. His clothes are all a size too big and don't make her want to groan in feigned annoyance, now just plain blocks of black and navy. He looks tired, mostly, but not so much physically. She can't blame him for being tired of it all, not when she considers everything he's been through in the past decade. 

He doesn't seem at all phased by her comment, and has likely heard it all before.

Michelle tips tequila down her throat and watches Peter mirror her. "Why were you out, the other night?"

Peter busies himself poking at his rapidly cooling dinner for a moment. "Despite what others may have you believe, I do go places."

"So you were going somewhere? Or just walking?"

Peter shrugs. "It's too quiet up here. I grew up in one of the busiest cities of the world."

Michelle's dark eyes cut right through his bullshit.

"You still love it."

"It's home." Peter snatches the bottle and fills his glass, liquid splashing onto the metal countertop.

"It's my home too, but I don't know if I'd try so hard to save it."

Peter watches a bubble float to the surface of his glass. "Doing what I can do… You can't do nothing."

Peter drinks the tequila, lets it burn along his tongue, down his throat.

"There are stories, you know, of a shadow watching over the city. Whispers among those that call it home." She studies him, how his nose wrinkles, how his pulse jumps in his neck. "You're New York's best kept secret."

She thinks he might deny it, but he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, using his feet to lazily spin this way and that. "You're a journalist, shouldn't you be reporting that?"

Michelle frowns. "It's not easy to substantiate, rumours are just rumours. Besides, I met him, once upon a time."

Peter cracks open one eye, amusement tickling the corners of his mouth. "Oh?"

She presses her feet against the floor, letting the chill cool the sudden rise in temperature prickling along her skin. 

"He saved my friends. Even when it meant they hated him. Even when it was hard. He did what was right, and no one thanked him, so I guess deleting the records of any more concrete tips is my way of saying thanks."

Michelle hides the warmth in her cheeks behind her glass, lets the pleasant buzz of alcohol take the blame for how his tender gaze makes her gut feel.

"So," she says when his silence becomes too loud, "what does this thing do?"

Peter's eyes light up and suddenly she sees the boy she had once known, babbling excitedly as he explains his latest creation to her. An hour passes easily, then two, as he shows her around the space, and she finds it genuinely interesting, asking questions in his pauses for breath, letting him talk out a problem with one and helping him find the solution for another. She enjoys talking about her current article, and her mom's new partner that's taken her out of state. It's easy, and she thinks of how unfair it is that life has been so unkind to him when he's never really lived, how he's so good yet he'd been punished for it. 

So really, it can't be helped that when she toys with the idea of leaving, the tequila bottle nearly empty and the first hints of dawn lighting the little windows by the ceiling, that she lets herself get lost in it.

"It's late," she says, her voice a little hoarse from all the talking and the lack of sleep, "So late it's now early."

"Oh." Peter looks up at the windows. "Sorry, I tend to lose track of time in here. I didn't mean to take up so much of your time."

She shakes her head, turns her head to face him from where they're stretched across the holotable, her eyes parallel to his lips.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be," she tells him, bumping her forehead against his shoulder. Michelle looks back up at the blue hologram of space, projected stars twinkling above and around them. "Do you want me to go?"

Peter shifts on the table above her head. "No."

"Okay." Michelle smiles at the moon. "Then I'll stay."

* * *

**SUNDAY**

He's not entirely sure how, but she coerces him out in broad daylight.

She's ditched her blazer for one of his jumpers she'd been sitting on earlier, and she'd rolled her eyes at his glasses and the scarf but otherwise let him continue, and they'd walked off campus and snatched up a booth at the first place that smelt like a good breakfast. They're in a corner away from the windows, his back to everyone but her, and he orders pancakes and eggs and bacon and she orders him extra to mask his ridiculous appetite from the waitress. She gets a smoothie and drowns her own pancakes in so much syrup that his teeth kinda hurt at the sight.

The diner is small, quiet, a little ways off the beaten track, enough to ease the nerves that make him only a little hyper aware of every customer, every chime of an order ready, every hiss of the coffee machine.

His phone chimes, his Aunt trying to find him because he's not in his room and he's not in the lab. He tells her he's fine and that he's getting breakfast, and then mutes it because no doubt she's going to ask a thousand questions about what the hell has happened to her nephew in the 24 hours since she's seen him last.

He doesn't really know.

He's oddly okay with it.

"Do you always eat this much?" Michelle asks from where she's watching him over the brim of her smoothie. 

Peter shrugs, swallows a mouthful of bacon. "I burn through food quicker, but this is mainly because I didn't eat much yesterday. I never do when I'm focused."

"So, it's not just the suit? You can do stuff?" 

"Uh, yeah. The suit is useful, but some of it is… Biological."

Michelle leans forward in her seat, a hundred questions on the tip of her tongue, then snaps her jaw shut. "Sorry, sometimes it's hard to turn the journalist thing off."

Peter shrugs, surprised to realise that he doesn't really mind.

"It's just easier to demonstrate, but not right now."

Michelle doesn't miss the unspoken promise in his words of a next time, that he wants to see her again.

Peter watches the tips of her ears go pink, her hair pulled back so she can't hide behind it, and suddenly his mouth is betraying him by telling her, "I used to have a crush on you, you know. Before everything happened."

Michelle's eyebrows travel up her forehead but she seems more amused than surprised. "Oh really?"

He pushes the last two bites of pancake around his plate and chews on his bottom lip. He's suddenly all bashful and she remembers how he used to stumble over his words around her, like she made him nervous. She remembers how she approached everything with an air of cool indifference, unless it involved talking to Peter. Then she'd lose every ounce of cool.

"I was going to tell you, I had this whole plan, but your mom had that accident and I had to delay it."

Peter realises he needs to pull himself together because his tongue is far too loose around the girl he hasn't really known in eight years, barely knows at all, yet here he is, telling her every stupid little secret -

"Well at least your plan is now successful," she says, and reaches across the table to stroke her fingers over the back of his hand. "A little bit later than planned, but what's a few years between friends?"

Peter looks up at her with the most hopeful look on his face that she can't help the smile that spreads her mouth wide. "Friends?"

"I don't stay up all night for just anyone, Peter." She lets her touch linger just a moment longer before tucking her hand under her thigh so it can't go and do something stupid, like touch him again.

"Okay," Peter says with a gooey smile. "Friends."

***

'Friends' is the word she repeats to herself over and over again until it doesn't sound like a real word.

'Friends' is what she thinks when she finally goes home, crashing out on her bed within moments of her head hitting the pillow.

'Friends' is what makes her stuff the stolen jumper into the back of her drawer and throw on a loose fitting dress before she heads to the closest bar and finds Jessica.

Jessica's fingers feel nice enough inside her, and her tongue makes quick work of making Michelle's back arch and her toes curl. And an hour later, Michelle wakes up from a nap alone and heads straight to her laptop, where she powers through a decent chunk of her article and a puff piece her boss asks her to write while she finishes her main project. 

She's picking up a late night dinner for her and Tia when her phone rings, and she briefly considers letting it ring out.

"What did you do to my best friend?"

"Why did you lie to me?"

"What did you do to my best friend?"

Michelle huffs. "We hung out."

"You got him to leave the bunker." Ned's tone is one of complete disbelief. "Peter never leaves the bunker. He sleeps there most nights. How did you get him to leave?"

"I asked," she says with a shrug, accepting her order and stepping out into the crisp autumn air.

"Did you bribe him somehow? With money, or drugs, or -" Ned gasps theatrically, and whispers. "Did you exchange sexual favours for his release?"

Michelle barks out a laugh. "I did _not_ sleep with Peter. We just talked and got breakfast."

"Please, you expect me to believe that the only thing you guys did all night was _talk_?"

"Ned, you're being stupid and I'm hanging up."

"Wait! I'm sorry, I'm just surprised. You did in one night what none of us have managed in years."

She presses her phone between her ear and shoulder as she fishes out her keys, her stoop creeping into view ahead. "He goes out, by himself. There's nothing special about what I did, nothing different or unique. The real question is why you lied to me in the first place."

Ned sighs. "I don't know, I guess I thought if he had some kind of a connection to the journalist that he might be more willing, but I knew you wouldn't go if I didn't tell a very minor white lie that ultimately benefited all parties involved."

Michelle unlocks the main entrance of her building. "He doesn't want to do it, Ned, and I'm not gonna make him."


	2. Week Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you entered this story not thinking the E rating was serious, then this is the time to turn back and exit out. Or just skip over Saturday. Either way.
> 
> ALSO if you haven't moseyed on over to Tumblr recently, then please go and check out the Spideychelle Big Bang! Sign ups are open until the end of January and we'd love to have you.

**MONDAY**

“I just don’t understand it, Peter.” May paces back and forth in front of his station, hands thrown wide and nearly taking out a precarious stack of dirty mugs. “We’ve been begging you, for _years_ , to get out into the world, and now -”

“I do leave,” Peter tries to explain, but he goes unheard.

“I know you used to have a crush on Michelle, but how did she get you to go to breakfast with her? I don’t understand your reasoning.”

“I don’t either, May.” Peter throws down the spanner and runs his hands over his face. “I guess… MJ has never been someone you say ‘no’ to. I didn’t even know what I was doing until we were suddenly outside the complex.”

May sighs, her steam running out. She cares, he knows that, and it’s because she cares that she’s been saying all her confused thoughts out loud since barging through his door with her phone still in hand - Ned, ever the snitch, had clearly ratted him out after getting nowhere himself.

Right now, Peter is just… Tired. 

Turns out staying up all night with your high school crush is not as easy to get over as staying up all night to work on Morgan’s latest blueprints.

“Can you pass me that screwdriver?” he asks as he rubs at his eye, shifting his chair closer to the worktop. 

May obliges, pressing it pointedly into his hand until he looks up to see her softer gaze. “Did you have fun?”

Peter shrugs one shoulder. “I guess. It was… Nice.”

“Okay, then. I suppose I can live with that. Maybe now you could… Keep the momentum going. We could go out for lunch, or take a walk around the park.”

The sickly curl of anxiety has his stomach lurching in a way all too familiar to him, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to throw up at any moment. Instead it’s a light wave of nausea, something he can work through as long as she doesn’t push him any further.

“Lunch sounds good,” he says through the lump in his throat, “I can be done in an hour?”

“Peter, it’s past dinnertime.”

He looks up in surprise, glancing to the little window in the corner that, sure enough, confirms her statement. “Oh. Well.”

May steps around the clutter of discarded parts to wrap an arm around his shoulders, her lips warm against his crown. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

* * *

**TUESDAY**

“Hello?”

“That place can go and get fucked. I’m _done_ with this bullshit!”

Betty, as unflappable and adaptable as she always has been, doesn’t even hesitate at the screeched words flung at her through the phone instead of a greeting. “What did they do?”

“My boss called my article outline ‘boring’. _Boring_ , Betty. When have you ever known my writing to be boring? I am a _great_ writer! But he wouldn’t know that if it slapped him in the face!”

“Did you actually slap him?”

“Almost!” Michelle’s boots pound against the sidewalk with enough force to trigger some kind of earthquake, her fury boiling over in dangerous flashes of red and white. “This is the biggest scandal DC has probably seen in a decade, but sure, call it _boring_.”

There is a sound of a magazine page turning, and then Betty says, “You should quit.”

This is why Michelle called her in the first place. Everyone else would tell her to calm down, that she was being ridiculous, but Betty? She gets it. Because Michelle isn’t being ridiculous; she’s mad, and if she doesn’t release in a puff of inconsequential tyrants, then it’ll seep into the important parts of a life like a parasite, destroying her comfortable and exciting existence.

“I’m going to.”

“Good. They don’t deserve you.” Another page turns. “You’re Michelle mother-fucking Jones. You became decathlon captain when you were just a sophomore. You graduated college early at the top of your class. You single handedly took down the -”

“- Betty, don’t you dare.”

“Sorry, sorry. I forgot.” Betty sighs, and Michelle imagines her flicking her perfect blonde hair over one shoulder while looking for meaning in the bubbles of her champagne glass. “My point is, you’re destined for bigger and better things than that stupid newspaper.”

“I am. Yeah.” Michelle stops at a pretzel stand, fishing some money from her purse for the carbs she so desperately needs. Betty is content to wait while Michelle says her thanks and continues on her walk, glancing up and down the street before crossing to reach the subway stop that will take her home. “Are we still on for drinks later?”

“Of course. You have to tell me all about your hook-up with Peter.”

“I swear, when I get my hands on Ned Leeds' throat -”

***

“...so the main take away that you should be taking from this is, _I did not sleep with Peter Parker_.”

Betty gives a look over the rim of her wine glass. “But you wanted to.”

“What?” Michelle almost chokes on her mouthful of spaghetti. “No!”

“It’s not a big deal, you know. If his arms are anything like I remember them being at school -”

“I do not want to sleep with Peter -” Michelle has to force herself to lower her volume and pitch, curious glances her way making her shrink back in her chair. She picks up her gin and tonic and takes a long sip, before leaning forward and whispering, “I do not want to sleep with him. Stop saying that!”

Betty smirks. “You’re very defensive.”

“Because people keep _saying_ it to me.”

“Maybe because they’re on to something.”

With a reinforced glare, Michelle swallows down her residual annoyance with a forkful of dinner, chewing with a little more effort than necessary. Her friend is far too smug for her own good, slicing her chicken like she’s a member of a royal family, nose raised and lips pursed. 

“You know,” Michelle mumbles towards her dinner, “I think I preferred it when you and Ned weren’t friends.”

* * *

**WEDNESDAY**

Michelle wakes up on Wednesday morning to five messages;

Two are from her boss, discussing her reworked outline with slightly less negativity.

One is from Ned, a screenshot of a little online news outlet with a short, seemingly uninteresting piece on ‘The Shadow of New York’ with the caption, _See? It can be done._

The last two are from Peter, a laughing emoji in response to her last message, and then one from this morning of a hastily taken photo of two sets of feet walking through the grass, undoubtedly belonging to the Parker family.

 _She got me out_ , he’s written underneath.

 _Good_ , she says back, _maybe next time you can do it after sunrise._

She laughs at his quick response - a little yellow hand giving her the finger.

***

It is a well-known fact amongst Peter’s inner circle of people - it’s a very small circle, yes; barely even fits the parameters that define what a circle is - that Peter has two phones.

One is his.

One is Spiderman’s.

Another well-known fact is that Spiderman’s phone doesn’t ring much, but when it does, it means the world needs to brace itself; shit is about to go down.

He’s relaxing in his room with Ned, four hours into a mind-numbingly long video game session that has only been paused to order pizza and open beer from the little fridge Morgan designed to run on arc reactor tech. Ned thinks he has his buddy on the ropes but Peter knows how to play the long game, moments away from a move that will shatter any preconceptions Ned has about the results, when something blares from the other side of the room.

The controller falls from Peter’s hands. Ned barely remembers to hit pause.

“Duty calls,” Ned says, far more enthusiastic that the boy beside him is. “I’ll grab the headset and the suit’s case.”

Unable to move from the spot, the call instead chimes on the screen built into his web shooter - an idea that had seemed clever at the time, taking away the chafing nightmare of a watch and the gadget permanently looped around both wrists. 

Peter is dazed as he raises his hand and taps twice to tell the Avenger’s he’s on his way. It’s been months since his last callout, a mission that hadn’t gone to plan and had landed them all in some pretty hot water for a while before they’d fumbled together a reasonable solution. There’d been a lot of talk about his involvement, hushed whispers that grew to grumblings calling for Spiderman’s early retirement within certain circles; he was a has-been, one person had said, a damaged figure that civilians could not in good conscience put their faith into. Pepper and May had kicked up a storm but secretly, Peter couldn’t help but agree. What help could he really be when he spent so much of his life cowering behind reinforced walls, terrified to take any real action lest the few people he had left felt the wrath of enemies?

He’d told Sam not to include him anymore. Not unless it was end-of-the-world-levels of bad.

And his phone is ringing.

“Get May to the bunker,” Peter orders as he jumps to action, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, “And call Pepper! She’ll probably know but call to make sure. And MJ! Get her over here right now!”

“MJ? Are you sure?” Ned pauses in stumbling over himself to flash him an incredulous look. 

“Yes, I’m sure! Call her!”

“Okay, okay, I’m on it.” Ned’s got his phone out of his back pocket and is tapping away at the screen, barely batting an eye when Peter somersaults across the room to the window while simultaneously firing a web to bring the Iron Spider suit into his grasp.

If Peter had the time, he’d think how it makes him a little sad to see Ned no longer in awe of his alter ego.

But he doesn’t. Because the world is potentially going to end.

“Karen, connect me to Sam.”

He’s swinging out of the complex before Ned can even start his first call.

* * *

**THURSDAY**

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” she hisses into the phone while she storms up Fifth Avenue. “You better have a damn good explanation for why I just spent the night locked in a fucking basement with the most amazing woman in the world and Pepper Potts because I -”

“I wish I could give you an explanation.” Peter sighs, sounding more tired than her despite her night of no sleep; her body far too occupied with panicked thoughts of what was going on outside of that ridiculous room, and if Tia ever made it home to feed Anastasia.

“You better give me an explanation. I did not decide to come and see you five days ago just to be dragged into a world of crazy whenever you felt like it.”

“MJ, please. I’m sorry. I thought it was serious and I wanted you to be safe, but I should have asked your permission. Or not told Ned to lie to you. Either or.” Peter’s a little out of breath, and she wonders if he’s pacing, or maybe he’s still swinging home. “I am truly sorry. Does it help to know that I got tricked into some kind of intervention by Captain freakin’ America?”

Her lips twitch up despite herself, cutting down a side street to escape the swarm of people heading her way in the morning rush. “What do they think your problem is?”

“Apparently my Aunt isn’t the only person tired of me spending my time in the lab.”

“I’ve been your friend again for five days and even I could tell you that. Hell, I’d have told you that just from the initial conversation with Ned.”

“I _like_ my lab, okay? It’s really cool, and I get to do whatever I want there.”

Michelle chews on her bottom lip, hesitating over whether to insert herself into this issue when she has no real place to; when he’s spent the past twelve hours fielding concerns from people far more familiar with him. After a moment, she whispers, “Life isn’t about getting to whatever you want, Peter. I wish it worked that way, but it doesn’t.”

“I know that, Em, I do. You think I’ve wanted to waste away my early twenties in that place?”

“Honestly? I think you’ve spent so long hiding that you don’t realise you’re doing it anymore.”

“I’m not _hiding_ \- I’m trying to keep the people I love safe.” 

He’s trying to be calm with her, but even through the phone she can hear the ripples of anger in his voice that threaten to overwhelm him, how it’s moments away from breaking through his iron walls and slamming into her for trying to say a word against him. The journalist in her craves to pick at the wound, to dig deeper until the source of the infection that has captured him so fiercely in its grip is exposed and vulnerable. Peter has spent his whole adult life buckling under the weight of what Beck did to him, unable to see far enough in front of him to avoid the uneven ground that constantly makes him stumble. What if he didn’t have to carry that weight anymore? What if he could find some freedom by knowing there’s a different path to take?

For the first time, she truly understands the reasoning behind Ned’s interference.

Because maybe, if she can play her cards right, she could be the person to relieve him of his fears.

Except -

“I know that they think they can help me, but they can’t. There’s no coming back from this, but I’m okay with it. I’ve accepted my lot in life, so why can’t anyone else?”

* * *

**FRIDAY**

Peter can’t stop thinking about the long silence from their phone call; how she’d tried to sound cheerful but, when she couldn’t keep it up, had hung up with a quiet goodbye.

He sends her a stupid photo of Ned from a year or two ago, thick food stains down his chin and chest from a trip that cost him his dinner. When she doesn’t respond, he sends her a photo of Morgan from when she was still little, permanent marker proudly scrawled like make-up across her face. Michelle eventually responds with an expression of humour, then a separate message about her crappy boss not seeing the serious implications that could arise should she not publish her article. There’s a normality to it that settles his guilt, and they converse with relative ease for a few hours before she excuses herself to head home.

There’s a photo of her takeout dinner, a photo of the parts he just got delivered for a design he’s nearly finished the prototype for, and then another of May’s new manicure as she holds her coffee mug and regales him with tales of her work with the non-profit. 

Peter breathes a sigh of relief and turns off the last of the lights in the lab, heading home for an early night with his buzzing phone in hand. At least they’re still okay. He can’t risk screwing up a friendship that’s only been back for less than a week.

* * *

**SATURDAY**

She's already ready to go out when Peter sends her a picture of his latest completed project, and because she's a little tipsy on the two glasses of wine she'd had in the bath, she calls him and asks if he'll meet her.

He hesitates a little, but she promises he'll have fun and soon enough he caves. 

She has an hour to kill until he'll be at the door, so she fusses with her mascara and paints her lips with a dark red shade her mom bought her last year but she's never used. She fluffs her hair and changes her bra and at the last minute pulls out the combat boots she's never managed to give away, staring at her reflection, how the dress she's chosen hangs from her shoulders, an excessive amount of fabric to appear effortless and show off her slender frame. She pulls a face at herself for caring so much about what she looks like, tugs the leather jacket over her bare arm, and makes herself wait on the front stoop.

Peter approaches from her left a few minutes later, his gaze warming her skin as he takes in her outfit. "So I guess we're not going for a leisurely stroll around the neighbourhood."

Michelle stands up, towering over him from her spot of the first step up, so he has to crane his neck to see her face. "You've done enough watching from afar. It's time to live a little."

"I don't know if you've noticed this, but my face is not something people have just forgotten."

"I don't know if you've noticed this," she retorts, booping his nose, "But your face is actually kinda cute, and girls love a cute celebrity."

Peter's expression morphs from concern to amusement. "Did you just call me cute?"

"Shut up, I'm a little bit drunk." Michelle jumps off the step and starts to walk backwards, crooking her finger at him. "Come, let's go be young and make stupid decisions."

Peter follows her, his dark eyes flickering around to take in every face, every noise. "MJ, I don't know…"

She stops and tugs at his jacket until she can see what he's wearing underneath. It's a simple black t-shirt, and his pants are dark enough that he should get away with entry into the bar she has in mind. She tugs the red scarf from its chokehold around his neck to show off his sharp jaw, looping it loosely around her own neck as she fusses over him. She runs her fingers through his hair so it looks a little less floppy and little more deliberate and settles on keeping the glasses - they're tortoiseshell and they look cute on him, like he's about to read her a Shakespeare sonnet, and she knows he feels a little more comfortable with something to hide behind anyway. 

"If you really don't want to go, we can turn around and I'll show you my collection of Doctor Who DVDs. But I honestly think we'll have fun, if you'll trust me."

Peter knows that she'll respect his choice, doesn't want to push him too far before he's even found his footing. But there's something about the shine of her lipstick and how her boots look so beaten up that they might just be the ones from when they were still kids, because she's trying, and thinks that if she's by his side, he's willing to try too.

Michelle grins when she sees the moment he makes up his mind. "Excellent, because I don't actually have a collection of Doctor Who DVDs. Who has DVDs these days?"

Peter opens his mouth to make an appalled retort but she's stomping away from him, so he rushes to her side and they walk the ten blocks to the bar with their shoulders brushing.

"So I never really took you as a party loving kinda girl."

Michelle crinkles her nose. "It's not so bad, though I'm not much into dancing. I like going for the drinks and the sex mostly."

Peter almost chokes on his own tongue, and she laughs, her knuckles brushing his wrist.

"We're in our mid-twenties, Peter, casual hook ups are perfectly natural. It's a great way to relieve stress, which is my personal inclination."

Peter flushes at the mere thought of Michelle having sex, then trips over his own feet.

A thought occurs to her as Peter rights himself and fidgets with his fingers. "Peter, please know I ask this out of pure curiosity and respect whatever your choices have or have not been, but… Have you had sex yet?"

His flush deepens. "Yes, it's just… Tricky for someone in my position."

Michelle gasps. "If you tell me you've hired a prostitute before, I am going to scream in happiness."

"No!" Peter coughs and lowers his volume. "I uh, I met a girl who used to work with Ned."

Michelle nudges him with her elbow. "What was her name?"

"Gwen. We very casually dated for a few weeks and she was nice, but it's not like we could have gone anywhere."

"Just Gwen?"

"There was also a S.H.I.E.L.D agent, once."

Michelle bites her lip and tugs at the soft wool of his scarf around her neck, the sleek exterior of the bar coming into view as they round the corner. Peter stiffens beside her but stays at her side.

"Okay, so here's what you're gonna do; follow me, don't say anything, and slip the guy a twenty as we go in."

Peter goes to ask a follow up question but Michelle has already left him behind to high five the muscular figure at the door.

"Freddy, how was your trip?" she asks the bouncer, who's face softens at the sight of her as he begins to tell her all about the beach and the food, pulling his phone out to show pictures of two little boys, the eldest no older than four, splashing in the sea. Michelle oohs and ahhs in all the right places and suddenly she's leaning in close and pointing at Peter behind her. Freddy gives him a brief glance and nods, and Peter hurries to fish any kind of currency out of his pocket as Michelle walks the ten paces back to his side and grabs his arm, tugging him after her. He hears three grumbles from the queue outside but focuses on slipping Freddy the money and not how Michelle's touch still burns through the fabric of his jacket.

The inside of the bar is mostly shiny black surfaces and a shockingly tasteful amount of neon strip lights, a heavy beat vibrating through the souls of his shoes. The bar is to their immediate left and he can see an alcove along the back wall that leads to a dance floor, full of flashing strobe lights, but Michelle drags him to the bar, squeezing into a gap and immediately striking up a conversation with the closest bartender. He assumes she must be here quite often to be so friendly with the staff, and he lets his gaze travel over the bodies crammed into the small space. Everyone is engaged in conversation or dancing or staring at their phones, and he feels a little of his apprehension melt away that not a soul is bothering to glance his way.

Michelle returns with two glasses of something orange and pink, pressing one into his hand. "You okay?" she checks, raising her voice to be heard over the music. He nods and takes a sip, then another when he tastes the fruity concoction she's chosen for him.

"Okay, so rule one, never take your eyes off your drink," she yells, "The only time your glass shouldn't be in your hand and in your eye line is if it's finished or you've trusted me to look after it."

"You don't need to shout," he yells back, gesturing with his free hand to his ears, "I can hear you fine."

"Really?" she says at her normal volume, and he nods. She smirks. "Awesome, and noted. Okay, rule number two, be yourself, relax, have some fun."

"Is that it?"

"Yeah, well you don't really need me to coach you that much and I was mainly just trying to show the importance of looking after your drink, because some people suck."

"They do suck."

Michelle laughs again. He likes the sound of it. "But not everyone. Some people are great."

Peter nods, and Michelle challenges him to see who can finish their drink first - which she trumps him at. She cheers and he smiles and then some old college friends of Michelle's come over, and the night passes quickly in a flurry of loud conversing and enough alcohol that even he, with his fast metabolism, feels a little tipsy. Michelle's a little more measured in her drinks, and he feels her watching him even when they're talking to different people, like she's concerned or trying to look after him, maybe. He finds the whole thing pretty exhilarating, talking to more people there than he has in the last year. No one seems to be paying close enough attention to immediately recognise him, which relaxes him even more until suddenly it's 1am and he's a little overwhelmed from all the sensory input. 

Michelle notices him begin to flag immediately, and they say their goodbyes and head to the exit. She's barely tipsy, changing out every other drink for water or soda, but she's just fuzzy enough to let him lace their fingers together, beginning the walk back to her apartment.

"I said you'd have fun," she says wisely. "Didn't you have fun?"

"I did. Thanks MJ, for tricking me into it." He squeezes her hand and when he looks at her she sees the droop to his eyes in the streetlight.

"You're tired. Do you wanna get a cab?"

"Nah, the walk will wake me up."

"I can give you a piggyback?"

Peter chuckles. "I don't think you can, Em."

She tilts her head, considers. "Can _I_ have a piggy back?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

Peter glances around them and, confident they don't have an audience, uses one arm to sweep Michelle up and onto his back. She squeaks at the sudden manhandling but he can feel her smile against his neck as she curls her limbs around him. She can tell from the straight line of his back that her additional weight barely affects him, so lets herself settle into the curve of his hands as they grip her thighs.

"I never really linked the video's of Spiderman lifting cars and holding together boats until right now… But _damn_ , you're strong." Michelle's breath brushes over his cheek and it makes him feel a little dizzy. "You just lifted me with one arm; that's… That's pretty hot."

"I guess there were some perks to the spider bite," he muses aloud.

Michelle is quiet at his back, and they make it a whole block before she speaks again. "Is that what happened to you? You were bitten?" Peter hums in confirmation. "How did a spider manage to cause… This?"

Peter hitches her up on his hip and tries not to focus on the feel of her chest pressed against his back. "Tony had a theory, ran a couple of tests. He thought that it somehow exposed me to a bunch of radiation, like Bruce Banner, and that the spider was maybe part of an experiment."

"Someone was trying to replicate the super soldier serum?" 

"Someone's always trying to replicate that damn serum."

She lapses back into her thoughtful silence, and he lets her take a moment to process what she's learnt. 

"Did it hurt?" 

Peter chuckles. "I thought I had the flu."

He feels her nod and they're close enough that he can see the front of her building. She feels a little heavier, like she's falling asleep, but just as he starts to work out the best way to wake her up, she mumbles, "What was your plan?"

"My plan?"

Her lips graze his neck as she responds. "Your plan to tell me how you felt."

Peter clears his throat. "Oh, it was stupid, you'll hate it."

"No I won't," she promises, and there's something in the way she says it that makes him think she means something else, but she's poking his shoulder and whispering, "Pretty please?" in his ear, so he shakes his head and tries to think of the best way to tell her.

"I uh, I was going to find a way to sit next to you on the plane so we could watch movies together, and get you a gift or something to give to you at the top of the Eiffel Tower." He thinks of the necklace that was blown up along with the rest of his possessions on that bus. "I'd seen this necklace that was a glass black dahlia, you know, like -"

"Like the murder," she finishes for him.

"Yeah. It was kinda cheesy, but it got blown up so I wouldn't have been able to bring it back for you anyway."

"I read the Eiffel Tower was secretly built as a mind control antenna to create an army of the insane."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she sighs dreamily. "That's why it was the best part of the trip." 

Peter puts her down and she looks up to see her building, the lights out in the window she knows is hers. She grabs her keys from her pocket but she's not ready for him to go, so she steps a little closer.

"So we're at the top of the Eiffel Tower." Her smile is coy. "What happens next?"

"I mean, I put a lot of hypothetical work into this, so I guess I was kinda hoping you'd do the next bit." Peter's laughing, and it makes her stomach feel all swoopy.

"So I, what, drop to one knee and propose?"

"I think at least one date would have been nice before skipping straight to marriage."

"Oh, so you were gonna ask me on a date?" Michelle winks. "I suppose for a necklace I'd have considered it…"

She steps into his space and he suddenly loves that the little bit of height she has on him means it's totally acceptable to be staring at her mouth.

"Would you have kissed me?" She exhales the words so seductively that his eyes flutter shut at just the idea of kissing her, but then he hears the gentle teasing in her tone and he counters her with a snarky, "Would you have kissed me?"

She presses closer, and this is it; this is the moment.

The tip of her nose brushes his. He feels the air move as she closes her eyes.

He hears both of their hearts pound.

Her fingers curl into the front of his coat as her bottom lip grazes his own.

And then she's gone.

Michelle grins smugly at him from the top of the stairs, shaking her keys so they clatter like a wind-chime. "Are you coming in?"

She's being playful, but he knows there's nothing funny about what his answer is.

And saying 'yes' means something big, something a little bit scary and very important, but she makes the leap as easy as breathing, unlocking the door and slipping inside, the open door her final invitation.

Peter chooses.

She's lingering at the top of the fifth floor stairwell, watching him take the steps two at a time to get him there a little faster. By the time he reaches her, she's sliding a key into the lock and she pushes open her front door, lingering in the doorway.

"I'd have said yes, so you know," she says, tracing a finger over her keyring. "If you had gotten to ask me."

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Damn.”

The way he watches her, something predatory and lustful, making her giddy with the idea of what he'll do with the information. With what comes next. She can taste the anticipation in the air between them so distinctly that she can barely breathe, yet when she drops her fidgeting hands it kicks him into high gear.

Peter grabs her face and she tugs at his jacket and then he's _kissing_ her. It's hot and impatient and she whines as he crowds her against the open door, his tongue brushing her lips. He tastes like rum and mint. She never wants it to stop.

He tilts his head for better access and his glasses bump the bridge of her nose. Pulling away to catch her breath, she rips the lenses off so she can see his dark eyes properly. He's got red lipstick smudged across his lips and his chin and she can feel her heartbeat between her legs as she thinks of all the places she wants that mouth.

She kisses him hungrily and slides her fingers under the hem of his t-shirt, smiling against his lips when he flinches away from her cold touch. 

Peter’s withdrawal tugs a quick apology from her, but he just holds her hands reverently between his own. When he blows warm air onto the little cluster of fingers, she bites her lip against the words she isn’t ready to say. He’s so impossibly soft with her despite the passion of the moment, despite the years that have passed and how they’ve grown as people. 

It just makes her want him all the more. 

“Better?” he whispers, looking at her from beneath his lashes in a way that is completely unfair. 

Michelle shivers against his body. It shouldn’t be possible to look this beautiful, yet here she is, proving him wrong like no time at all has passed. 

She tucks her fingers into the waistband of his jeans and pulls him forward by his belt buckle until he's flush against her. Her breath fans across his ear, dragging a shiver up his spine as she whispers, "I want you to fuck me, Peter. I want you to leave bruises on my thighs and feel your tongue on my chest and your hands pulling my hair. I want to feel you inside of me, over and over, until I can't stand. I want _you_. Right now."

She hasn’t drunk enough to be this disorientated by Peter throwing her over his shoulder, but then again, she always was a little dazed whenever she was in his presence as a teenager. 

The squeal she lets out as he carries her into the apartment is far too loud for the hour. Peter stumbles over his own feet when she slaps him square on the ass, her laughter setting off a reaction of its own. 

“MJ,” he admonished lightly, but she just snorts through the fresh wave of giggles it triggers. “I will put you down!”

“But the view is so pretty,” she says with a sigh, humour now barely contained. “Take me to the bedroom, my wonderful steed.”

Peter takes a half step forward. “Uh, which way?”

“Left,” she says confidently until Peter twists. “No, wait. Right. Forgot I was upside down.”

Peter lets out a snort of his own but hurries to the bedroom, the arm that secures her warm against her bare legs. Moments later she’s horizontal on her mattress, dress hiked up from the fall. From the foot of the bed, the way he watches her in ravenous, and Michelle can’t help her smirk as she leans back on her elbows and licks her lips. 

“Michelle Jones, I think you just might be the end of me.” He toes off his shoes and then bends to unlace hers, pressing a tooth-rottingly sweet kiss to each ankle as he eases her foot out. 

“And you’ll be the death of _me_ if you don’t put some haste into your actions.” Michelle laughs as he flips her off without looking away from his very important task of lining their shoes up. “I’ll be all wrinkly and grey before you get back over here.”

“Mm.” Peter suddenly tugs at her ankles so she slides down the bed, her arms giving out from beneath her in surprise. “You’ll still be beautiful, though.”

Peter’s eyes flash at her, full of humour and a hint of danger. If she weren’t already hopelessly turned on, she’d be a wreck just from that look. 

“Nope,” she says, pressing a finger to his searching lips as he makes to lean over her. “Lose the pants.”

His gaze narrows. “You first.”

How he didn’t see it coming, he’s not entirely sure, but the wicked smirk that splits across her face should have been the most obvious indication of the direction she was going to take his request. Still, it doesn’t stop the way his mouth waters at the sight of her slipping her hands beneath the excessive fabric of her skirt, hitching her hips up a little so she can remove the cotton briefs that hit him square in the chest. 

All without a single hint of what lies beneath. Peter’s almost disappointed, if not for how hot it is when she arches one eyebrow and slyly says, “Your turn.”

He’s never undressed so fast in his life. 

As amazing as you look in that dress, if you aren’t out of it by the time I untangle myself-“ Peter huffs from inside his shirt. “Actually, I might need some help here.”

“How are you still this much of a dork?” she muses aloud, but she sits up on her knees to ease the fabric away until she can see the embarrassed flush that colours his face and ears. His jaw drops when he sees her. 

“MJ…”

“Surprise?” 

Peter’s hands fall immediately to her hips, thumbs tracing the gentle curve of her waist. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you are in the last few minutes?”

She shrugs off his compliment to instead ping the elastic of her bra strap. “Thought you might like to do the honours.”

But Peter’s lost to the sight of her naked body, a finger trailing from her sternum to her navel, pausing just as her breath begins to catch at the possibility of more. She takes the moment to explore his arms, how deceptive the lean muscle is in comparison to what they’re capable of. The ease with which he’d carried her, like he barely noticed the additional weight, sends a little thrill through her as her mind begins to imagine a hundred potential ways to put his abilities to use. 

“I thought about this, you know,” he whispers, gaze still sliding over her body “being with you. This is… It’s so much more than I could have imagined.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the good part,” she teases, but the air is heavy with something that tastes like second chances, or is it as simple as giving in to what once was lost? Is this the beginning of something, or the long awaited end to a chapter long since considered finished?

There’s so much more he wants to say, yet Peter can only focus on the things she can’t - his lips meet hers with the all the passion he’d once dreamed of, speaking his truth in the slide of his tongue against her, the graze of his teeth against her lip making all of the promises. The moan that tears out of her chest is enough to bring his limbs back to life. The humorous and wistful tone is wiped away by the promise of something far more pleasurable than a night spent teasing the other. 

He touches her everywhere at once, caressing the little childhood scars and the yellowing bruises of nights gone by. Michelle holds him to her as securely as she can, head thrown back as he kisses down the long line of her throat. 

What he perhaps lacks in skill he makes up for with unbridled enthusiasm, tasting her skin like it’s his last meal. He sucks on the skin beneath her collarbone and it feels just like they’re teenagers again. There’s a nostalgia woven into the reverence of his touch that has her weak in the knees - not that that much matters, as Peter’s so busy distracting her with his lips that she doesn’t notice his hands gripping her thighs until her back is suddenly hitting the mattress once more, her grip on his hair dragging him down with her.

“You going to put those hands to use, bug boy?” 

Peter grunts against her sternum, tongue tracing the cups of her bra like he has all the time in the world. “Nope.”

She fidgets in frustration, widening the space between her legs to encourage him closer. “Peter…”

“My mouth, on the other hand,” he mutters, and then he’s taking her nipple into his mouth and she’s arching off the bed, nails leaving angry red trails between his shoulder blades. Peter’s arms give out at the sensation, falling into her arms as he works her breast more insistently. 

His hand slips beneath her back to twist open the clasp of her bra and finally she’s completely free to him. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she leverages herself up until he stutters over where she wants him most and it feels so good she could cry. She’s never felt like this before. In all her encounters, no one has so thoroughly worked her up as the boy she had tried to leave in her past, her first major crush that was never supposed to come to fruition; but now they’re here, lost in a haze of memories and possibilities.

Peter’s laving a trail down her stomach when she manages to catch her breath enough to demand his return. “Is something wrong?” he asks, brow immediately wrinkling in concern.

“Yeah.” She angles her hips up to meet his, smirking at how his eyes roll back. “You’re not fucking me yet.”

“MJ,” he groans, head dropping to her shoulder as he trembles above her. “I’m really trying to stay in control and you… The way you are driving me crazy is so unfair.”

“You don’t need to control anything for me.” She slips her tongue into his mouth and, when he relinquishes his hold on her hip to trace the curve of her jaw, she rolls them until she’s comfortably settled astride his lap. She leans down to whisper in his ear, “I can take it from here.”

Peter almost chokes on his own tongue, the sight of her tangling her fingers into her hair to brush it back as she leisurely trails a hand down his chest enough to already have him on the brink. 

Then she takes him in her grasp and he knows; this is how he dies. Not from a lost fight with whatever bad guy manages to take him down, but from the incomparable sensation of Michelle Jones giving him a handjob.

If this is what just her hand feels like, he’s definitely going to spontaneously combust when he finally gets to be inside of her.

He’d panic over it were she not pressing her breasts against his face to fish a condom from her bedside table.

Peter traps her in place to conduct a more thorough exploration of her chest. Michelle can barely remember what she moved for, but grinding against his abs - while very, _very_ pleasant - does little in the way of relieving the desperate ache between her legs. 

It’s only when a hand trails down her spine, over the swell of her ass to dip into her arousal, that she springs back to life, a single channeled focus on what she desperately needs powering her to rip open the foil packaging the roll the condom down his length.

“Holy shit, Michelle. We’re really doing this.” Peter’s head falls back against the mattress as she adjusts her position, pumping him twice. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You better.” He feels the heat radiating from her and thrusts up of his own accord, catching against her entrance. There’s a hitch to her inhale but she’s determined to stay on task. “Are you ready?”

“No. Yes. Please, Michelle, I wanna -”

She presses him inside of her and eases herself down, a shuddering gasp echoing through the heavy air surrounding them. “Fuck. Peter,” she whimpers, “You feel - _Oh_ , you’re so -”

She doesn’t need to finish her scattered thought. He already knows exactly what she’s trying to say.

Michelle moves slowly, allowing herself to adjust and enjoy the stretch. Peter’s so tense from holding himself back, but his fingers are achingly gentle as they stroke over the quivering muscles of her thighs. Only when she bottoms out, unable to resist grinding her clit against his pelvic bone, does she open her eyes to see his reaction. A hundred emotions are written plainly across his face, his jaw slack as he gasps for breath, flushed the prettiest shade of pink from the tips of his ears all the way down his chest.

“So,” she says conversationally, like he’s not balls deep inside of her. “How am I doing? Living up to the dream, yet?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” His voice is strained and strung out; the most perfect music to her ears. “Never expected you to be so… So chatty, though.”

“Really? I thought you’d be _much_ more talkative.” She presses a hand to his chest as leverage to rise up and then crash back down, moaning softly as he thrusts up to meet her. “It’s a pity. I had so many ideas on how to shut you up…”

“Fucking hell, Michelle. Keep talking like that and this is going to be over very, very fast.”

She laughs breathlessly until the vibrations of it passing through her body create a beautiful friction against him that has her arm buckling from the mounting pleasure. Peter sits up to keep her steady, hot palms guiding her hips to find a rhythm that is uniquely theirs. She catches his mouth in a searing kiss, a tug of war for dominance that quickly settles into tasting each other’s moans.

How have they gone so many years unaware of this chemistry? Why hadn’t they given into their feelings sooner, if only to have a little longer of their lives to experience them?

“Never want to stop,” Peter mumbles against her mouth, most of his words lost to the sounds of their union. “You feel so good, so beautiful.”

Her stomach brushes his chest as she rocks against him, rolling her neck back in delight at the feel of him sliding inside of her. She threads her fingers into his curls and, when an errant thrust glides deliciously over her clit, she tugs with enough force to be an instant turn off for most people, but Peter's pant stutters over her collarbone, a sound echoing from deep in his chest.

She pulls again to test her theory. He groans and his fingers clench at her hips a little harder.

"Ah, so it's not a god complex thing. You get off on it."

Peter struggles to follow the errant thought, focusing hard on not coming too early and embarrassing himself in front of his high school crush. "Huh?"

"The Spidey thing. You get off on the beatings."

Peter pulls away from the enticing skin of her upper left breast. "What are you talking about?" She yanks pointedly on his hair and they both feel the way he twitches inside her. "Oh, right, not exactly."

Michelle lets herself settle fully into his lap, pausing her movements to focus on what he's saying. It's simultaneously the best and worst thing that's ever happened, because oh god he never wants her to stop but it gives him a moment to collect himself, scramble back any semblance of control he can manage so that maybe this won't ever have to stop, they can stay locked in this moment forever -

"I uh, I'm more sensitive to, like, everything. The bite somehow just cranked me up from a normal human ten to about a thirteen point five on a bad day. Which can be a lot. And you just… It's grounding, helps me focus on how you make me feel."

Michelle rolls her hips absently. He can see her brain twisting and turning his words over until she's squeezed it of every drop of knowledge she can manage. Her thumb runs over the curve where his neck meets his shoulders and he grits his teeth against the still-healing skin lingering beneath her touch.

"So if you were to let your senses go, what do you pick up?"

"Right now?" 

Michelle torturously begins to grind down into him, her pace too slow to do anything other than drive him insane. He drops his forehead to her shoulder and when he opens his eyes gets a spectacular view of his hard length entering her. Her palm slides down his chest and she reaches down to feel her own impossible heat, her fingertips ghosting along his shaft.

She's pushing him deliberately, and he couldn't care less.

"Tell me," she orders, and a fresh shot of arousal slices down his spine when he realises she might be turned on by this.

"There's a smudge of charcoal behind your ear," he tells her, tracing the mark with his finger.

"That doesn't sound very thirteen point five to me." Michelle slows down to a snail's pace and he scrambles to let go of the restraint he constantly has to hold over himself.

"Your perfume," he grunts, "It's sandalwood and berries and, and jasmine. And your hair still smells like coconut, just like in high school."

"I use the same conditioner," she says breathlessly.

"You blow-dried it this morning."

"I snoozed my alarm too many times." 

"I can see the sweat coming from each of your pores, and you have goose bumps all over your arms. It tickles." Her finger slides up to draw lazy circles around her clit and he bucks uselessly into the tiny space between them that she controls with an iron fist. "Your heart rate is 124 beats per minute and I can feel the blood pumping through your veins through the wrist that's pressing against my back."

She kisses him sloppily, not quite focused enough to do it perfectly as he's come to expect of her.

"You had an oat milk latte today, and a raisin cookie."

Michelle moans and eases herself up only to slam back down. Peter slides his hands over the sweaty skin at the small of her back to hold her closer.

"Fuck, I can smell how much you are enjoying this, you're so wet, shit MJ." He feels overcome with it all and teeters dangerously on the brink of his self control, and she hears the shallowness of his breath so she extracts herself from his neck and without warning, twists hard at his nipple.

Peter chokes and she realises if she doesn't come in the next sixty seconds that she might combust, so she pushes out her chest and orders, "Fuck me, Peter."

Her back hits the mattress so hard that without his hands grounding her hips she'd probably have bounced straight onto the floor. The air rushes from her lungs with a husky peel of laughter that quickly morphs into a whine as Peter makes good on her instruction, hammering into her so fast she thinks she might end up with some kind of friction burn despite how slick she is for him. It only takes a dozen or so thrusts to find her g-spot and with three bullseyes and a sharp rub of her clit, she crescendos into an orgasm that almost makes her blackout with the force of it. Her ankles lock and she traps him with a remarkable amount of strength between her thighs, but it only takes a second of her walls trembling around him for Peter to find his own powerful release.

The pair return back to Earth slowly, exhaustion weighing down Michelle's eyes but she reaches blindly for his face with numb fingers, first brushing his hair then grasping his jaw, pulling him into a kiss that is equal parts filth and burgeoning affection. Their tongues dance and his teeth graze her bruised lips, but she just clings to him a little tighter, not ready to release him from the heat between her thighs.

"I think you've ruined my vagina," she whispers into his mouth, then louder, as he pulls away to laugh, "I'm serious! I know people talk about fucking so hard that you can't walk, but I think I might be bed bound for the next week."

"I hope not, because I have plans to eat you out at least three times before the night is through."

Michelle moans at the idea. "I'm gonna need an hour’s nap to let myself recover."

"A nap sounds amazing, but a shower sounds even better."

* * *

**SUNDAY**

This time when Ned calls, she admits, "Okay so I slept with him this time. But it wasn't an exchange to get him out! I just, uh, wanted to."

_“I knew it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @mjonesing on Tumblr as always!

**Author's Note:**

> @mjonesing on Tumblr as always! Leave a comment and let me know what you think. Bit nervous for the next chapter so... 😬


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